Today I'm going to a shindig hosted by Sarah Foster at The Faux Fountain Pen. Grab your muse and join the fun!
Me: “Hi Sarah. Wow, what a party! No, that’s not a bum stalking me. It’s my muse, Clyde Beauredgard. He, uh, doesn’t get out much. Sorry about the stench. Clyde, couldn’t you have at least put on something clean? You smell like trout.”
Clyde: “Well, sor-ry! Maybe you should’ve left me back at my fishing hole, Sunshine. You ain’t exactly wearing haute couture, is you now? Ain’t those the same jeans you wore the past three days? With another “Life is Good” t-shirt? Damn, is that number 20 or 21? I seem to have lost count.”
Me (after stomping on Clyde’s foot): “Say hi to our host, Clyde.”
Clyde (tipping his filthy fishing cap): “Ma’am. I heard you like names and seeing we're at a party at all . . ."
Me: "Oh no. Please don't."
Clyde (chanting): "Sarah, Sarah, bo-Barah, banana-fana, fo-Farah, me-my-mo-Marah, Sarah!"
Me: "Dude, that is so last month!"
Clyde (sneering at me): "Says you. I brought a little something for your par-tay, Ms. Foster. A little family recipe called Kraft Surprise.”
Me (holding my nose): “I told you to leave that in the car.”
Clyde: “What? The casserole? Calm down, Petunia. It’s just Mac and Cheese with a little Spam mixed in!”
Me: “Not that, you idiot! I meant that keg of stink in your other hand, the homemade brew you must of strained through your socks!
Clyde: “Well, fine. I’ll jest hide this in Ms. Foster’s fridge, but if anyone steals it—”
Me: “That will be the last thing they ever do. Literally.”
Clyde: “Well at least I’m not some uptight, never-tasted-a-beer Betty like some people.”
Me: “Zip it.”
Clyde (adopting the snide tone of a haughty waiter): “Want a lemon wedge in your water, Ma-dam? Or maybe some green tea with ginger flakes, you flake.”
Me: “Excuse me, Clyde. I’m going to go say hi to the Ninja Captain. Try not to embarrass me.”
Clyde: “Yeah, you do that. And be sure and ask Alex if those Kargrandes of his are actually starfish or octopuses . . . Octopi? Octopodes? Whatever. Are they just some sea urchins on steroids? Inquiring minds want to know. Maybe I’ll go talk to that purdy lady over there about the tornado outbreak of ’84. Don’t she like disasters?”
Me: “Probably not the human kind, Clyde, so leave Chrys alone. She doesn’t need to hear about you driving your truck into a tree and blaming it on the wind.”
Clyde: “Fine. Then I’ll just stand here and listen to this sad excuse for music and try not to puke.”
Me: “You think anything recorded after 1978 is garbage.”
Clyde: “Sweetheart, I’ve got two words for you: Milli Vanilli. Stuff that in your 34B.”
Me (giving Clyde the look of death): “Watch it, Mister. Maybe the karaoke machine will have some Beatles for you.”
Clyde: “The Beatles? Please. Give me some Doors, some Hendrix, The Who. Now that’s music. Forget that karaoke sh--, I mean stuff. Let’s have some real fun.”
Me: “I’m afraid to ask.”
Clyde: “Relax, Junebug. I was just going to suggest charades. Jeez, what did you think I was going to say?”
Me: “Strip poker?”
Clyde: “Eww. Now who’s being crude? I’d sooner shimmy to that skinny chic, what’s her name? Taylor Swuft? Shake it? Yeah. I’d sooner put a lampshade on my head, coconuts on my tits, a grass skirt on my bum, and table dance to that ear-slop than play strip poker!”
Me: “And now I have that image in my head. Check please!”
Clyde (starting to boogie): “Loosen up, Lettie. This parties just getting’ started! Who-hoo! Isn’t this better than sittin’ around, thinkin’ up your sad excuses for stories?”
Me (burying my head in my hands): “Kill me now.”
What can I say? Clyde’s a real charmer. This fellow grew up in Honea Path, SC, back when color TV was a big deal. His mom was first a schoolteacher and later principal of Whitehall Elementary, his father was in the armed services, and his older brother Dillan, or Dill, used to (in his words, not mine) beat the piss out of him until he outgrew the son-of-a-BLEEP.
Me: “Really, Clyde? I’m bringing a bar of soap next time.”
Clyde: “Well, you’re the one who said I wasn’t housebroken! Just livin’ up to my hype, Harriet.”
Me: “I can’t take you anywhere.”
Image Courtesy: Håkon Iversen Photog
Here’s some old blogs featuring tales from Clyde’s boyhood:
Clyde and The Rabbit Who Came For Dinner (Blog title: Fishing with Clyde)
Now I'm off to meet other's muses who, I'm sure, will be more cultured.